How does a mustard seed appear before us? Not as a tree, with leaves tickling falling Sun rays into laughter in greens and yellows, And rainbows in beautiful forest lushness. A man once invited his friends to cannibalize Their way to heaven; offering himself to them, And their stomachs popped out their eyes And spun them round to perceived sanity, And muttering they walked away from their belief, Now too gory to hold, leaving without any grief. Sensing danger, he tapped the hands of the tag team, Where temptation was strong, and the flesh Was being torn for fear of tearing at its seams On the way to the renovation store up the hill. Oh how sound they slept and ignored his behest, And slept and slept like all this was just a test. As time stood still to catch his final breath Of pardon, as Word became Word, and flesh stayed To feel the Earth shudder at this one death, Darkening, rending, only three teared, dismayed. From 12 and more, just 3 saw the spear hit mercy Between the ribs. Only 3 dared to show their faces. As the body formed after a miracle three days later, And those who feared came back to said body, Renewing their faith, his uncle had to make encounter With truth while walking away from perceived insanity: As muttering, he and partner walked in disbelief At this so-crazy-to-behold story told to hide grief. How does a mustard seed appear before us? As a mustard seed. It feels the tree eager to burgeon, And comparing itself to what it must show, It knows the truth, and as the world lies With counter-examples and stories of revenge, It holds the truth. It doesn't call for the help Of other seeds. It knows who made it and where Allegiance, hope and growth lie. How does a mustard seed appear before us? One seed at a time, for it's not how many, But if any would stand for God, for Truth Even as the hill promises you Gehenna. (c) nyonglema
All posts by nyonglema
Juneteeth
The waves pull at the lugs of the wind-smiling boat
Where jokes are thrown, and hope of home stays afloat.
But beneath the wood, in dark damp despair
The souls piled in bodies in chains gasp for air.
Captured in fields of butterfly-filled chanting grass
Where children's smiles once lit love in these paths,
Now wishing death, escape, drowning, as the waves tossed
Their past away, carrying them to the land of the lost.
Finally off the cramped hell of human faeces and decay,
On a dais where bids are called, and theyget whisked away
To serve the farm. This was freedom from seaborne pain
Just to be enslaved, and cut and hurt once again.
Their brothers off to Arabia, or further to the same fate
Had warned of this predicament, and now they're in their state
Hoping for a day when a heart is changed and the impossible
Becomes blood on this continent to unhinge their shackles.
***********
What's freedom?
The shackles have fallen off the scars
That held back my breath.
Opportunity smiles the seduction of the 14th of February
And I say yes, reach out, looking to a future, looking
Beyond to joy, beyond death.
The eagle soars to survey and seek its prey, as I ride
Peacefully building a future where my kids will be eagles
To pray the prayers that freed my heart, to dream the dream
That Washington, Lincoln and Martin Luther King dream, and
Put the whip back into its sheath.
***********
But my brothers are still stuck.
I watch as I soar how the nest of worms appeals to them.
The chain is gone.
They seek a new master to shelter them from the
Predators of the world;
They call to this master to take their cross, and bear
It, and give them some cotton to feed their fears.
Melanin comes to the table.
He builds a bull of gold, and they bow.
"Oh Melanin, you brought us out of the slavery in Egypt
Out of the Slavery in Libya, Saudi Arabia, and Kuwait
Out of the bowels of the slave ships on the Atlantic,
You brought us out of slavery,
Now enslave us to your will.
Make us wholly thine. Where you command we will go"
So he did.
And beautifully decorated by their bull,
Now, their lives matter.
(c) nyonglema
I Matter
Not because of the carbon complexes that Stuck in my skin block out some rays And hide me in dark pictures or from sad days. Not because my nose is lots different from Your pointy one, my nostrils swim On my face, arms spreading at my every whim Not because of my hair, so fine it weaves Itself into landscapes of rolling hills, Or tangos as tightly as two lovers' wills Not because I'm different from you, and like him, Not because I'm not from where you are, where They don't look like me when I look everywhere. No. I matter because I breathe a breath not mine. I matter because of the will I have received Which is mine, to drive this body so a-grieved By the rain of darts that life piles on me. I matter because nobody tells me what to think Or whom to hate, carrying their lead in my heart Like Newton's hair, to folly and the coroner's cart. No. I matter because once one so crazy bore a cross That I may matter, no matter what I looked like. I matter because I can forgive and reach across. (c) nyonglema
Pick your heroes
Does the victim deserve justice or medal?
I'm in the confessionary as petals
Fall off the flower of my redemption.
The litany's long, but who cares if one
More sin piles on, for this cleanses all.
Knee caps listen to my sins as vocal
Chords chirp them out, petal by petal
Till the bud shrivels and browns away,
Promising me hope for a brand new day
In the death of what was, to what will
Grow. As my breath ceases to spill
I glimpse my sins start to melt away.
Now glorify, forget my worst crime days
And adorn you garments with my face.
Start frays, may your kids live my way.
(c)nyonglema
Patience #NoahArk
Flap away and as your wings survey
The drying death below, tell me:
What do you see?
Do the bloated barks of leafless trees,
Brown in death, and laden with grief
Seem anew to breathe?
Do the fungi grow in coloured sheathes
On trees that felled by water swam before,
But now rest ashore?
Oh Raven, Raven, only water above all else
You saw, all around you one ocean swells?
Flap away and as your wings survey
The drying death we know, search around,
For dry ground.
Do the torrents that tossed us far and wide
Now slow and ebb as the tide begins to drop
Beneath mountain tops?
Do the oceans now divide like post-storm clouds
Up above, and sip back behind the rocks
That held them locked?
Oh Dove, dear Dove, only water above all else
You saw, all around you one ocean swells?
Well flap away and once again survey
The drying death that haunts us night and day
And find a way.
Oh, you found an olive start to live again,
As the sun bedazzled each leaf in emeralds
Set in gold walls?
Oh, you found strands of green to build a nest
To start anew nature's run which took a break
For 40 days!?
Oh Dove, oh Dove, if only again the emerald shone through day
Once again to say the fear has been whisked away with pain
And humans can carry on life in a new akin to the old way
Out of the nest, to neighbours to love and break bread again
(c) nyonglema
Minority #identityPolitics
The TV is telling me a movie story, But I can't relate. Nobody in there looks like me. Even the games I play have been carefully Curated to exclude me. My day to day life Is not on the walls of the backgrounds I Shoot at. Not even the enemies look like My daily struggles, But I play on. Artificial intelligence tests Miss my demographic, pushing out machines I Can barely relate to, bearing the fake smiles That poke through my skin in public spaces where The world expects me to blend in, to grab a chair Into their special lounge, where only I and my peers Weren't Invited. Yet I'm blamed for the crimes that are committed, And the police won't hesitate to test their suppositions On me, for no matter what I do, no matter my position, I must have stolen this car, and everything else as well. My kind has committed some egregious crimes that swell Above all the good I do in my community. Going to hell Is the promise The world has for me. They don't know me or my pain In not having enough like me to relate to; seeking Friends amidst the throng whose eyes look menacingly In fear of what I could or would do to them and all. No matter what I say or think or do, the vitriol Just can't end. I need one whom I can dare to call And relate. But even this meal that temporarily heals me will Be considered something I stole of a hardworking Man's back. Taking other people's stuff is the thing All imagine me doing; this house I worked to buy Must have been ripped of some miserable family guy. These fancy clothes must be the blue to a conman's sky! How else Could I have these, earned through hours and hours, Sacrificing family relationships, my health, my loves, Just to hit my targets of making in concrete new flowers? Nobody believes I tried to change the world my way 'Cos to the world, robbing to climb is the only way We the 1% make a living. (c) nyonglema If you earn > $ 800 000/year, then you're part of this chastised minority: enjoy.
Weak Men
"Touch your feelings. Cry. Show that emotion." I remember one who did that as the plot thickened. Speaking of truth from his purple toga: Purple dripped to the floor because of his fear. An emotion. It crawled off hanging flesh on a back. It trickled off the whip, splattered on stone. He feared losing his position in the hierarchy. He feared being labelled a tyrant. He feared being labelled too clement. Truth knocked at his door, offering Salvation. He chose his weakest emotion as guiding star, And led Barabbas to lonely babies and future orphans. Standing there, drowning in fear, fear, fear, Beset by crystal balls drawing his fate In paths to future outcomes in purple blood On the city walls, amidst the clamour, his Gumption Was vaulting over a bowl of ostrich water, washing Off the blood saying, "It wasn't me! Fac sicut vultis" Where was the Evangelist, to write the guilt, Shame and justified tears, as the eclipse shook The temple to its foundations, stole the light Off the world? To watch him watching Him on His Mission, Shedding the tears of repentant strong men, but Only, this time regretting "what if", "what if". (c) nyonglema
My son is 10
Only yesterday you put your fingers in my eyes As if to dot them, to make them more perfect for you. Today, you cross my Ts and with ink, dot my i's For our conversations have got richer with each day And as I recall cradling you to sleep with many tries For you would stare, looking for everything new In the living room, where you and I crawled like spies, Discovering every nook, every cranny, every day, I relish you now, on your way to start your own fires, On your way to be the spirit that brings out something new, On your way to reach mine, then peak at a higher spire On your way to change the world, your way. (c) nyonglema
Gethsemane
As mere mortal man, where do I go for strength? Reels of death give me the L in a reek, like Lazarus died of covid19 in a past story of a tryke Tumbling into Jerusalem in tears with 2 sisters. "Pull Heaven to your breast", I hear that often, And belief is Atlas lifting Earth, Jupiter plus That weird new 9th planet, because Pluto was Not enough pain to bear: something newer, heavier Is what I need for strength, till I stop to think. Whom did God call to for help when fear gripped The roommate of flesh? How was the switch flipped? "Not Mine but Your will be done" Nothing heavier. (c) nyonglema
Vestigial
What got you here, won't get you there. -Marshall Goldsmith ------------------- Curls of hair tumbling down my chest, Falling from my neck, The black on my face Say I'm ready for battles to mate. Each strand whispers to the other: "I'll protect you from the strikes", As they expect a foe, similar to me, To punch, bite and scratch. Protect the vitals: A cushion for blows to the head, Where the control tower plans the win strategy; Another for blows to the chest, Where energy is supplied to the weaponised sinews; Another for blows to the groin, Where the prize of all this mayhem sits safely. The times have changed, though, and such fights, Are not the path to procreation. Neither are our socialist governments A path to independence. Protecting us From blows from foes, similar to us, They once curled, and some were cut out. They took the blows, that we may be Free. But, the times have changed and such fights Are not the path to civilisation. They seek to control the head, They seek to constrict the chest They seek to conscript the groin. They give the blows, that we may be Free to do their chores. In truth, the times have changed, And even if the policies look great It's time to go bald. (c) nyonglema
waghni 